He checks the time she leaves the room, Calls it care, calls it love. Wants the names, wants the place, Reads her silence in her face. Control, or erosion of soul. Break, or leave without the chase. She doesn’t pack. That would be seen. She doesn’t cry. That would mean hope. She doesn’t dream, she calculates, How to leave without a trace. Counts the hours, not the days, Maps the room in quieter ways. Keys in pocket, phone on mute, Learns new lies to tell the truth. He says she’s fragile, she’s wrong, He says independence won’t last long. Keep her small — that’s his religion, Control dressed up as permission. No screams, no scenes, no police lights, Just constant anguish every night. You don’t love her, you inventory her. You don’t trust her, you monitor her. You shrink her down to feel tall, Then act offended when she crawls. You trained her to survive you. And you taught her how to hide. Now watch her use it to leave you the fuck behind. You say she’s fragile, she’s wrong, You say independence won’t last long. Keep her small — that’s your religion, Control dressed up as permission. No screams, no scenes, no police lights, Just constant anguish every night. She leaves quiet, You stay loud. Alone with the bullshit, You called love
